


loquacious (loh-KWEY-shuhs)

by akamine_chan



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge: due South Seekrit Santa, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, they ran out of eyewitnesses who had actually <i>seen</i> the event and were down to the crackpots who wanted them to investigate what <i>exactly</i> the city was putting into their water and why the snowplows only plowed on the days before the Blackhawks lost. Ray flipped closed his notebook and called it a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loquacious (loh-KWEY-shuhs)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria/gifts).



> Written for Ariastar for the due South Seekrit Santa 2009.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my horde of betas. Waltzforanight was the first to see this, in its original F/K/V form, which wasn't working for me. J_S_Cavalcante helped me tear this down and rebuild it as a more solid F/K story, helping me in ways that I can't even describe. She also helped reassure me that it didn't suck, which is apparently part of the job description. All while juggling her own myriad commitments, all on a deadline. Were_duck, Sionnain and Julia_here all provided different viewpoints as well as insightful and really helpful comments and advice. It was cute to watch Sionn and Were_duck bond over the GoogleDoc of my story. As always, this story is only as good as it is because of my betas and any remaining mistakes are mine. Last but not least, many thanks to RL friend P, who helped with GTO tune-up tips (which unfortunately got left on the editing room floor) and for a pleasant discussion on the physics of defenestration.
> 
> [Podficced](http://archiveofourown.org/works/369127) by tinypinkmouse.

    

defenestrate (dee-FEN-uh-strayt) verb

  
    

To throw someone or something out of a window.

  
    

From the Latin _de_\- (out of) + _fenestra_ (window).

  


By the time Ray got to the crime scene, the forensics team had covered the body and cordoned off the area. He breathed a sigh of relief.

He still had to work up his nerve before squatting next to the body, watching out for the shards of glass scattered about. He lifted the sheet long enough for his stomach to roil violently. Dark hair, stocky build, a pool of blood. There was no way in hell he was turning the victim over. He'd leave that to the forensic experts.

He stood back and squinted up at the fifth story window, the one that was broken. The window that this poor chump had fallen or been pushed or maybe even jumped from.

"Ray."

Ray turned and there was Fraser. He nodded. "Hey. Thanks for coming." He wanted to reach out and touch Fraser, but he didn't. They'd agreed, after a long discussion, to keep the physical affection to a minimum while they were at work.

"It's my pleasure."

Ray grinned knowingly. "You were just happy to get out from behind your desk and escape the paperwork."

"Possibly." The skin around his eyes crinkled a little—a Fraser-smile. Fraser knelt down and looked under the sheet. "White male, approximately mid-40's, a solid build, dark hair, likely Italian extraction" He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and carefully started to empty the pockets of the victim. He pulled out a brown wallet, flipped it open to look at the driver's license. "Giacomo Colosimo." He quickly riffled through the wallet's contents. "Fifty seven dollars in cash, a few credit cards, a family photograph, video rental card, dry cleaning receipts, grocery lists."

Ray took out his notebook and started scribbling in his usual chicken scratch. "Giacomo Colosimo..." He tapped his pen against his head. "Giacomo...oh, yeah! Giacomo "Big Jim" Colosimo. Suspected button man for the Calabrese family."

"Is the Calabrese family experiencing difficulties? Possibly a rival group attempting to take over, to move into the family interests?"

Shrugging, Ray pointed his pen at the body. "Dunno. But I'll find out." Ray flipped closed his notebook and looked back up at the broken window. "This doesn't really seem to be the Mob's usual MO. Bullet to the back of the head, yes. Defenestration, no." He turned and caught the surprised look on Fraser's face. He lifted his chin up and squared his shoulders. "What?"

"Defen—"

"—estration, yeah. It means to throw someone or something out of a window. As in 'Big Jim Colosimo was defenestrated by unknown parties.'"

An unexpected smile broke across Fraser's face. "What a wonderfully constructed sentence, Ray."

Ray blushed. "The Word-A-Day calendar you gave me for Christmas," he mumbled. "It said it doesn't do any good just to memorize the words; you gotta use 'em in sentences and stuff, otherwise you'll forget."

Fraser chuckled. "Very true. You have to work hard for a good vocabulary, Ray. It doesn't just happen by itself." He grabbed Ray's elbow and gently steered him away from the body.

Fraser held onto his arm and his touch was warm even through the fabric of Ray's shirt. "I'll get some ears out on the street, see if we can find someone who was looking to take out Big Jim. Maybe talk to the Organized Crime guys, see if they've heard anything."

"An excellent start." Fraser let go of Ray almost reluctantly, turning away to talk to a bystander who'd seen Big Jim crash out of the window and hit the ground.

Ray trailed after Fraser, occasionally taking mental notes on Fraser's "good cop" techniques. Ray needed all the help he could get with his "good cop." When Ray smiled and tried to make nice with the witnesses, they had a tendency to look scared and move away from him. Ray was _much_ better at "bad cop" than "good cop", but he was best at "crazy cop". His experimental hair, ratty clothes and hyped-up personality helped that impression along.

Fraser was handsome, and he was a charmer; he had an open, honest way with people that disarmed them, put them at ease. He brought them over to his side, showed them that he was just trying to help. In the beginning, before he really _knew_ Fraser, Ray had been sure that Fraser's "good cop" was so good because he was a good liar.

Now he knew that Fraser's "good cop" routine wasn't really a routine, and it came from Fraser's heart. Ray loved Fraser's goodness, his bone-deep honesty.

Fraser couldn't lie, and when he said, "I love you, Ray," he meant it.

"Ray."

He jumped a little, startled out of his daydream. "Yeah?"

Fraser indicated the Asian man standing next to him. "Mr. Li says that he saw several people flee the building after Mr. Colosimo's fall."

Ray waved over a patrolman. "Let's get Mr. Li down to the station, have him work with the sketch artist. Maybe we can get something..."

Eventually, they ran out of eyewitnesses who had actually _seen_ the event and were down to the crackpots who wanted them to investigate what _exactly_ the city was putting into their water and why the snowplows only plowed on the days before the Blackhawks lost. Ray flipped closed his notebook and called it a day.  


    kerfuffle (kuhr-FUHF-uhl) noun
  
    A commotion.
  
    Of uncertain origin, perhaps from Scots _curfuffle_, from _fuffle_ (to disorder).
  
The bullpen was chaotic, as always. Ray quickstepped through the busy hallways of the precinct, managing to avoid Welsh but not the new civilian aide, a young woman named D'Nece who had a crush on him. When Ray was around, she talked a lot but wouldn't look him in the eye. She brought him coffee and reports and files every chance she got, whether Ray needed them or not.

D'Nece was a good kid, smart and quick and she made Ray feel old, old, old. He avoided her as much as possible, because one day he was going to have hurt her feelings by giving her the "let's be friends" spiel. He'd been there, done that, got the tee shirt, thanks for nothing, hasta la vista, baby.

Ray had watched Fraser dance this particular tango with Frannie for a long, long time and he was determined to let D'Nece down easy. Just...not today.

So Ray tried to sneak past D'Nece, but she saw him, handed him a pile of files and a cup of coffee. "These are the files for the Dalie case you asked for, plus what information I could dig up on Big Jim Colosimo and his involvement with the Calabrese family. Also, Lieutenant Welsh asked me to remind you to have the report on the Dalie case," she pointed to the files she'd just handed him, "on his desk by the time you leave today."

Ray took the coffee and the files and slunk off to his corner of the bullpen. He quickly lost himself in the paperwork piled on his desk.

He worked on his pending cases, writing up what he had on the Colosimo case and setting it aside until he got more information from Forensics and from Mort.

Most likely, one of Big Jim's associates had been presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take him out, and did.

It was almost lunch time so he dialed the Canadian Consulate. When they'd left the apartment that morning, Fraser hadn't been sure he would be able to get away from the Consulate for lunch, or for liaisoning. Ray still had hopes for lunch at least.

Turnbull's replacement, Steven Harper, answered the phone. He told Ray that Fraser was in a meeting with the FBI—Ray guessed it was about the video smuggling ring they were trying to shut down. Cheap, bootleg VCR tapes manufactured in China were being imported to Canada, then smuggled across the border into the States. The FBI wasn't happy about it, and the Canadians were embarrassed to have "Made In Canada" stamped on the illegal and inferior goods.

Lunch was out, then. Ray left a message for Fraser to call him back and went over the Colosimo file again, tap-tap-tapping his pen against his desk.

"Kowalski!"

Welsh's bellow caused him to jump, startled. He looked up and saw that the Lieutenant was wedged between Dewey and a perp, fighting to keep them apart while they screamed and tried to kill each other. Ray debated not helping for a brief moment, imaging the perp breaking free of Welsh's meaty hands and beating the crap out of Dewey, just like Ray had been wanting to do for a long time. He could take perverse satisfaction out of it—

"Kowalski!"

Ray scrambled out of his chair and lunged across the bullpen for the escaping man, twisting his arm back and up, using leverage to turn and slam the him up against the nearest wall. "Fuck, Dewey, some of us are trying to work here. Keep your perps under control and the kerfuffles to a minimum."

"I'm innocent and I want my lawyer," the perp screeched. Ray ignored him and glared at Dewey.

Dewey resettled his jacket onto his shoulders and smirked. "Kerfuffle? What the hell kind of queer word is that?"

"Fuck off." Ray shoved the perp into Dewey and walked away. Otherwise he was going to punch that smug look right off of Dewey's face and then Welsh would have to kill him. And Fraser would have to lecture him, which would suck. It wasn't worth it.

Ray went back to his desk, back to his paperwork, ignoring Dewey's mocking laugh.  


    infatuation (in-fach-oo-EY-shuhn) noun
  
    A foolish or all-absorbing passion.
  
    From the Latin _infatuatus_ (make a fool of).
  
A few days later, Ray finally caught a break on the Colosimo case. One of his snitches had heard something about Petey Colosimo trying to move in on his older brother and Ray spent the afternoon calling in witnesses and showing them Petey's mugshot.

He had a couple of hits including one witness who was sure he'd seen Petey's face through the broken window after Big Jim had been pushed through it. Ray paid off his snitch and told her to keep her ears open before he went in search of D'Nece.

He found her in the supply closet, stocking it with...supplies.

"Hey, D'Nece, do you think you could see what information you can pull on Petey Colosimo? He's Big Jim's little brother—"

She looked at him for a moment, her heart in her eyes, before looking down at her feet, blushing. Ray couldn't stand it any more. This infatuation had gone on long enough.

"Listen." He pulled the door shut, blocking out the dull roar of the bullpen. "Listen, you're a terrific girl, D'Nece. You're smart and pretty and someday you'll meet someone who deserves you." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry, but that someone isn't me. I'm just a scrawny, old, Polish queer and you can find someone better. You understand?"

"I'm sorry, Ray, I didn't mean to—"

Ray shook his head. "No, no, no. No apologizing! This is not about being sorry, this is about you being young with your whole life in front of you. Find yourself someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated, who appreciates you. Go out and have fun. Get it?"

He waited until she nodded. "Good girl." He thought about saying more, but figured that she needed some time alone. She looked like she was about to cry and he didn't think he could handle that. "Let me know if you find anything on Petey Colosimo, okay?" He left her in the closet, hoping like hell he'd done the right thing. Because at this moment it didn't feel like it.  


    excoriate (ik-SKOHR-ee-eyt) verb
  
    To denounce or berate severely; flay verbally.
  
    From the Latin _excoriatus_ (to strip, to skin).
  
"Where is he, Stella?" Ray's voice was sharp and biting. He'd built this case, convinced the judge, gotten the warrant for Petey Colosimo. This had been his case, his bust. He'd been ready to bring Petey in, only to have Welsh pull him aside and tell him about the Feds.

While Ray's back had been turned, the Feds had picked up Petey Colosimo and his fancy lawyer.

"It's not your case anymore, Ray." Stella's voice was just as cutting. "The Feds have it under control—they don't need your help, or your interference."

Her dismissive tone stung, and a wave of anger washed over him. With a growl, he pulled her down the hall and into the supply closet, slamming the door shut behind him. She reached up and yanked on the dangling string, turning on the bare bulb and sending it swinging, throwing odd shadows across the supplies stacked neatly on the shelves.

"What, Ray?" Stella crossed her arms defensively in front of her chest, looking impatient. Her face was tight and pinched, a scowl darkening her features.

"What the fuck, Stel? I worked on this case, interviewed the witnesses, put together the evidence and then the Feds waltz in and steal my suspect from right under my nose?" He threw a hard punch at an empty section of wall, hissing when Stella grabbed his hand and examined the damage. Wincing, she pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped it around his bleeding knuckles. "Where is he?"

She stepped closer to him, unfazed by his anger. She'd seen Ray angry before, had argued and yelled and screamed back at him over the years. The answer had never been to give ground. "Doesn't matter. You're off the case; the Feds have him in custody and he'll be moved into the Witness Protection Program after he testifies against the Calabrese family." She poked him in the chest, pushing him out of her personal space. "What does it matter if Petey pushed his brother out of a window? The amount of evidence he'll give us is huge—we'll be able to put away large portion of a high level organized crime family."

"Fuck that. Where is he?" he yelled.

"You can't see him," Stella yelled back. "You'll just do something stupid and then we'll have to let him go and—"

"Oh, fuck you, Stella." He was so angry he was shaking, and he knew he had to get away from her before he _did_ do something stupid. He turned, threw open the door and left Stella behind.  


    bellicose (BEL-i-kohs) adjective
  
    Inclined or eager to fight; aggressively hostile; belligerent; pugnacious.
  
    From the Latin _bellicosus_ (pertaining to war).
  
Ray rounded a corner and almost ran into Fraser. "Hey."

Something probably showed on his face, because Fraser grabbed his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Ray, what's wrong?"

"Fucking Feds." He shook off Fraser's grip. "Come in and steal my suspect right out from under my nose, leave me without a leg to stand on, can't close the case because they're sticking him into the Witness Protection Program. God damn it!" Just filling Fraser in pissed him off all over again. "Petey Colosimo pushed his brother through a window and I can't do a fucking thing about it."

Fraser noticed the make-shift bandage on his hand. "What did you do? Let me see what you've done to your hand."

"Nothing—I didn't do nothing, just punched the wall."

"Ah." Fraser looked a little worried.

"It's fine, Fraser."

"Ah," he repeated. "Well, when I came in I saw three dark-suited gentlemen escorting someone who looked suspiciously like Petey Colosimo into Interview 1."

Ray just stared at Fraser in shock.

"Ray?"

Ray took off like a shot, striding towards Interview 1. "I'm gonna kick his fucking head in. Witness Protection Program, my ass. He's just trying to get away with fucking murder." Ray kept up a steady litany of under-his-breath threats, mainly involving Petey Colosimo's head and his motorcycle boots. Fraser struggled to keep up with Ray in the crowded hallways.

They got to Interview 1 and Ray skidded to a stop, just stared through the one way mirror at Petey. At the other end of the hallway Ray could see Stella deep in conversation with the Feds.

Petey Colosimo sat at the rickety table chatting with his expensive lawyer, unconcerned. Ray saw his chance and ran with it.

Stepping into Interview 1, he slammed the door shut behind him, picked Petey up by the lapels of his designer suit and shook him. "You're a scumbag, Petey Colosimo." The lawyer sat stunned by Ray's sudden violence.

Ray could hear pounding on the door and Stella's angry voice, but he ignored it. "You killed your brother, didn't you, Petey? Pushed him out of his fifth story window and watched him hit the ground." Ray backed him up against the wall. "Watched him go splat, didn't you?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Petey struggled against Ray's hands. "I've got a deal worked out, you can't fucking touch me for Jim's death."

Ray laughed, the sound harsh in his throat. He looked up into the mirror, knowing Fraser was there behind the two-way glass. He imagined Fraser watching with calm blue eyes. He could feel the trust in those eyes, _knew_ that Fraser trusted him. He thumbed the side of his nose quickly, casually.

"You're right." He let go of Petey, roughly trying to pat his wrinkled suit back into shape. "You are absolutely right. I can't do anything about Jim's murder. And I have to live with that."

He took a couple of steps away before turning around and pointing to Petey. "I'll get over it, eventually, because you're just another dime-a-dozen murdering scumbag. But you—you have look in the mirror and see the guy who killed his own brother. You're the one who's gotta make his peace with God, not me."

Petey caught him on the chin with the first punch but Ray ducked under the second one. The door burst open and all hell broke loose. It took several FBI agents to restrain Petey long enough for Ray to make good his escape.

He walked out of Interview 1, jaw stinging, and walked past Stella. He stopped in front of Fraser and smiled crookedly at him. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome, Ray." Fraser smiled back. "Let's go home."  


    accoutrement (uh-KOO-ter-muhnnt) noun
  
    An accessory item of equipment or dress.
  
    From the French _accoutrement_, earlier also _accoustrement_. See _accounter_.
  
When they got home, Ray started to strip off Fraser's uniform the minute they shut the apartment door behind them. Tunic, jodhpurs, belts and buckles, and all the other accouterments of the RCMP uniform were hastily removed by Ray's dexterous fingers. Ray had gotten good at this particular task over the years.

Fraser tried to lead them to the couch—it was infinitely closer than the bed—but Ray resisted, steered them into the bedroom, backing Fraser against the bed and tumbling him down, too aroused to laugh when Fraser bounced a little. Ray followed, his body wiry and strong, rubbing against Fraser's solidity, enjoying the flex and twist of their bodies.

He held Fraser's face still between his hands and kissed him, licking into Fraser's mouth, loving the wet and the warmth. Ray found comfort in the familiar tastes of mint tea and the shortbread cookies that Fraser stealthily ate when he thought no one was looking. Ray kept kissing him, sucking on Fraser's tongue until Fraser was rocking his hips upward, begging wordlessly with his body for what he couldn't seem to ask for out loud.

Fraser's silence didn't matter, though, because Ray listened carefully to the nonverbal clues and worked extra hard to give Fraser everything he wanted.

Ray loved that Fraser opened for him, opened his body and his heart and took Ray in. Ray needed that. Afterward, Ray cuddled Fraser close, slowly stroking the long planes of Fraser's back until they both drifted off, safe and comfortable.  


    catalyst (KAT-l-ist) noun
  
    A person or thing that precipitates an event or change.
  
    Formed in English (an analogy of analyst) from Greek _kata_ (down) + -_lysis_ (a loosening).
  
Ray saw Stella in the hallway, talking to yet another suit. The station seemed to have an infestation of them, lately.

He turned around, not wanting to deal with her. He was still angry and chances were they'd just get into another fight.

It had been one of the biggest problems they'd had when they'd been married. They'd argue at work about cases and procedure and points of evidence and law, and then they'd go home and fight some more. It would escalate from sharp words to yelling and screaming and the throwing of dishes, and it always ended with them in bed.

They had fucked like they fought, fast and angry and full of things they couldn't say to each other. It had made for a lot of great sex, but hadn't been so good for their relationship. And in the end, even the love hadn't been enough to keep the marriage going.

"Ray. Ray! Damn it, Ray, wait up."

He sighed and waited, resigned. He could keep walking, ignoring her, but Stella was stubborn, she would just keep calling his name and making a scene until he talked to her. "What, Stella. What do you want now?"

She looked up at him, a little breathless. "I just wanted to—" She paused, taking a deep breath. She straightened her blouse and resettled her suit jacket, composing herself.

Ray had watched her do this countless times before, usually right before she'd gone into court to argue a case. Preparing for battle, he used to call it, teasing her.

"I just wanted to say I was sorry for yesterday."

"What?" Ray shook his head, convinced that he'd misheard her.

"I'm sorry." She touched his arm. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, I'm sorry for thinking that you'd do something stupid."

Looking at her, he noticed for the first time that she looked older. The same Stella she'd always been, still beautiful in his eyes, but more careworn and tired. He sighed. "It's okay, Stel. I get it." They were both different people now; he'd gone on an adventure with Fraser and she'd married Ray Vecchio.

"It's just that, in the past, you would have—"

"Well, that was Old Ray. I'm New Ray."

Her eyes widened at that. "I haven't ever said anything about the Mountie, because it really isn't any of my business," she said seriously, "but he's been good for you."

She didn't get it. Didn't get _him_. But it didn't matter anymore. "Fraser's been the catalyst for New Ray, but I'm the one who made the change." He leaned down and kissed her check. "Apology accepted, Stella."  


    competent (KOM-pi-tuhnt) adjective
  
    Having suitable or sufficient skill, knowledge, experience, etc., for some purpose; properly qualified.
  
    From the Latin _competere_ (to be suitable).
  
Ray just needed Mort's official report on Big Jim Colosimo to complete his case file. He could dot it, file it, and stick it in a box marked done. Petey had vastly overestimated his value to the FBI and since he hadn't been as useful as they'd hoped, the Feds had withdrawn his immunity and were going to prosecute him under the RICO Act . It looked like Petey was going to a federal prison for a long, long time.

The Feds might have stolen the bust from him, but all he really cared about was seeing that Petey Colosimo got what was coming to him. Life imprisonment in a federal penitentiary sounded a lot like justice to Ray.

"Hey, D'Nece, Mort was going to get me the report on the Colosimo case—did he leave it with you? I can't find it on my desk anywhere." Ray pushed around some folders, poked through some papers but couldn't seem to find the autopsy report.

"Maybe that's because your desk is a mess."

Ray looked up and grinned at her. "It is. Even Fraser won't touch it."

"The Mountie has sense," she muttered under her breath. In a louder voice, she commented, "Mort was in a rush, said he had a date and that your report was on his desk, downstairs." She paused. "You want I should go get it for you?"

Ray shuddered. He considered D'Nece's offer for a moment, thinking about how much he was creeped out by going down to the morgue. But the idea of making _D'Nece_ go down and maybe see some dead bodies was worse that having to deal with it himself. "Nah, I'll go get it. Thanks, though."

"Sure, Ray." She smiled at him, and Ray smiled back and headed to the morgue.

He galloped loudly down the stairs, trying to break to strange silence that seemed to permeate the basement. Ray understood why people talked in hushed whispers, why they walked softly in the cold halls. They didn't want to bother the dead.

In Ray's mind, though, the dead couldn't be disturbed. They were _dead_. And he was the one who needed loud noises and the warmth of the living to keep his mind off the fact that this is where the dead came—into the basement of an ancient building, tended to by an old guy with a fondness for opera.

So he sang the lyrics to _London Calling_ a little off key as he entered the morgue and headed for Mort's desk, which was almost but not quite as disorganized as Ray's. It took Ray a couple of minutes of searching to find the file labeled "Giacomo Colosimo" but he eventually found it and skedaddled out of there, never once looking at the corpse laid out on the table.

Not looking didn't stop him from getting queasy, though.

He dashed back upstairs and hit the men's room, running cold water in the sink and splashing some on his face. Fraser came in, looking concerned, just as he was drying himself off with a rough paper towel from the dispenser.

He reached out and cupped the back of Ray's neck, squeezing a little. "Are you okay? D'Nece mentioned that you'd gone down to the morgue—"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Ray balled up the paper towel and tossed it toward the trash can. "Just feel stupid, you know, getting creeped out by bodies and stuff—"

Fraser surprised him by tightening his hand and shaking him a little. "Stop it." He leaned over and kissed Ray, hard. "That's one of the things I love most about you, Ray. Even though we are officers of the law, we should _never_ get jaded and blasé about seeing dead bodies. It _should_ bother us. I wish you could understand that."

Ray looked at Fraser and smiled, ducking his head a little. "Thanks, Fraser."

"You're welcome, Ray."

"Let me finish this," he held up the autopsy report, "and then we can go catch some dinner. And after dinner, I've got some plans..." Ray waggled his eyebrows and leered. He leaned close and whispered, "Let me show you some of the new words I've learned. One of the words last week was fellatio."

Fraser blushed and tried not to look scandalized. "Ray—"

"Let's go." And they walked out of the bathroom, together.

-fin-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [loquacious (loh-KWEY-shuhs) [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/369127) by [tinypinkmouse_podfic (tinypinkmouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypinkmouse/pseuds/tinypinkmouse_podfic)




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